


A Risky Bargain

by waffle_Atronach



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Distrust, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fighting, Little bit of body horror, Masks, Rivals to Lovers, Slow Burn, Strength Kink, at least I'm going to see how long I last, because turning into a Seeker certainly freaks me out, first multichapter, lots of armor both metaphorical and physical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waffle_Atronach/pseuds/waffle_Atronach
Summary: Dragonborn Verity avoids conflict when she can. She's an Imperial, after all. Diplomacy is a national pastime. But when her latest bargain lands her with an ancient Dragonborn with a massive ego and no idea how to function in this century, she really wonders if she's taken on more than she can handle. Especially when Miraak gives her cause to question whether he's even still human...~☯~My first attempt at a slow burn! Feed back is very much appreciated!
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak
Comments: 55
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

There was something very off-putting about Apocrypha. Past the slimy tentacles, the scent of mercury-laden ink and tang of wrought iron, the decaying parchment and probably enough black mold to give even a Namira worshipper pause, there was an almost jarring sense that at any moment…

Verity yelped and jumped as a tentacle smacked her from behind, jumping away from the inky liquid it had emerged from. That was it, the out-of-place sense that she was about to be smacked in the ass she normally associated with taverns.

_“Draaaaagoooonnnnbooorn.”_

The Imperial sighed, tucking a loose lock of dark hair behind her ear and reluctantly lifting her eyes to meet the blooming stain of…whatever the Daedric Prince of Fate was supposed to be. Massive bulging eyes blinked at her lazily, the goat-like pupils reflecting her face, pulled and distorted and almost unrecognizable.

Verity gulped. “I thought about your offer,” she told him.

_“You are reluctant…to give up the shaman…”_ the Daedra surmised. _“But you need my help to defeat Miraak.”_

“Yeah, about that,” she shifted, uncomfortable. “I thought we might trade.”

For once, the waving tentacles froze, every eye rolled to stare at her, and she sensed the Daedric Prince was truly surprised.

_“Traaaade?”_

“If I defeat Miraak, he dies,” she said, speaking aloud the thoughts that had been crowding her head for days. “You can’t have much use for a dead champion, can you? More or less, I’m taking out your trash. I just need him to stop doing what he’s doing.” She shrugged. “So, yes, trade. You don’t want him, and he doesn’t want to be here. Why not let him go?”

The eyes blinked, all at once, and the tentacles started undulating again, but he didn’t answer.

“The idea insults you,” Verity stated, her own dark eyes narrowing. “You can’t stand to give up what you see as yours, am I correct? But you do trade, so I’m making an offer.”

_“I seeeeee…”_ the voice dipped, considering. _“And what would you…traaade for my wayward champion?”_

“I’m trading for your trash,” she reminded him. “You’re planning to throw his life away.”

 _“He…has made it necessary…”_ Hermaeus Mora’s sibilant voice nearly spat, displeasure obvious.

“I have something a bit less rebellious.” Shrugging her pack off her shoulder, she unwound the long bundle for the Daedra to see, pulling its match from her pack.

_“I already…have this knowledge,”_ he said, but his eyes were riveted to the Dragon Elder Scroll and matching lexicon.

“Then you’re familiar with how they work,” she tilted her chin up, staring him down. “The Scrolls are not constant. Their writings change with the events of the world. The Dragon Scroll for a Dragonborn. Something that gives infinite new knowledge, for something you’ve already wrung dry of use.”

A thoughtful hum shivered the air around her, and Verity swallowed and awaited his answer, wondering if she was doing the right thing.

~☯~

Apocrypha was always slightly chilly, but the bone-biting cold that rushed in around him had him crying out in surprise. Miraak crumpled on the hard, frozen stone that rushed up to meet him. Forcing himself up, he stared around wildly, taking in the stone arches around him, rising in layers like an opening flower, then looked up and forgot how to breathe.

The sky was obscured by clouds. Great rolling blankets of vapor in every shade of grey and blue-grey imaginable, but still so bright to his sun-starved eyes they began to water. Wind cut through his robes like knives of ice, and his body started shuddering, but it wasn’t the dull, lifeless air of Apocrypha, and so he welcomed it. The very air around him vibrated, humming with sound and presence, the whooshing of wind through pine and the scent of them and the sea and the mountains…

“You’ll freeze to death if you stay like that.”

Miraak jerked his gaze down, staring at the heavily armored woman calmly walking down the steps toward him. Her helmet obscured her face, but he could feel her in his soul, the sense of the dragon inside her shivering over his senses the same way her voice made the air shiver around him.

“What did you do?” he rasped, suddenly realizing he was thirsty. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been thirsty. He was vaguely surprised he could put a name to the sensation.

She paused, crossing her arms and looking him over. “I’m not entirely sure yet,” she admitted. “I suppose that depends on what you want. Have I traded the release of a prisoner, or just let another rampaging dragon loose?” Another long moment passed between them, and she sighed. “Whatever you’re planning, the world is a lot different than when you last saw it. You have no resources, friends, or lodging.”

His eyes narrowed behind his mask. She’d _traded_ for him? “Did you bring me here just to remind me what I’ve lost?” he snapped, gritting his teeth.

Her arms opened a little, surprised. “No, I’m just…I freed you, so I’m responsible for you.”

“I don’t need your charity!” he growled, surging to his feet.

“It’s not charity,” she replied quietly, drawing herself up. “You said it yourself, I brought you here. If I leave and you freeze to death, it’s my fault. If you run off and mind-control some bandits into starting you a new cult, it’s my fault. Anything that happens to you or because of you, from here on out, is my fault!”

She stopped, realizing she’d gotten in his face—well, helmet to mask—and stepped back. “It’s an offer,” she finally said, surprising him. “Come with me until you get your bearings. I can teach you about the world as it is now, and you’ll have a place to stay, and half of whatever we find or make while traveling together.”

He stared down at her, momentarily distracted by how small she seemed. He’d read that the current human races were shorter than the Atmorans they’d descended from. His neck was already getting a crick.

“For how long?” he asked.

She flinched a bit at the sound of his voice, and he realized he’d let the silence lapse long enough to be uncomfortable. Silences were interminable in Apocrypha.

“As long as you need,” she replied.

“And what do you get out of this?” Miraak demanded, suspicious.

The short snort of derisive laughter caught him by surprise. “Simple enough. I keep you where I can keep an eye on you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Quarantine is sucking the life out of me. o(╥﹏╥)o
> 
> ~☯~

The man was a menace.

Verity rested her forehead on the smooth wood table in her room and practiced some deep breathing. The entire way from the ruins of his temple, he hadn’t turned down a single chance to fight something. It was like traveling with a larger, male Braith. Werebears, Rieklings, bandits, those weird cricket-like things the Dunmer ate…

But Divines, could he fight. He’d be a joy to watch were he only not so irritating.

She sighed, resting her cheek against the table and staring at the wall. Beyond it, he had locked himself in and was hopefully bathing and sleeping. He’d all but collapsed getting to Raven Rock, whatever spell he’d been keeping himself going with working less each time. He’d refused to admit to needing a rest, wouldn’t even let himself sag if he knew she might look his way. Just watching him was exhausting on a level she’d never encountered before.

She still didn’t know what he looked like.

The thought made her blink. Time in Oblivion changed people. She’d read several theories about the Seekers in Apocrypha that had given her nightmares for days after the first time she’d fought one. Was there even a face under that mask anymore?

Feeling sick, she pushed away from the table, strode to the door, and locked it. She’d never had to lock herself away from a companion before, but she couldn’t trust Miraak, his motives or his mind, and…

Rubbing her arms, Verity admitted to herself that she was a bit scared of him. She knew so little about him, all of it bad, though from an admittedly biased source. He came from the cruel, privileged class that had served Alduin and subjugated humans. His rebellion had sundered an entire landmass. He’d brought down at least a score dragons, on his own, before tiring.

He’d also torn a burnt spriggan apart with just his hands earlier that day.

Verity shuddered, looking down at her armor, then firmed. This was her home, her time, her world. Miraak was out of his element. He was probably just as scared as she was, and if he wasn’t, he was either overconfident or foolhardy, since he certainly wasn’t stupid. At least, she didn’t think he was, though now that she thought that, half a dozen very scholarly but otherwise foolish people popped into her head. Miraak might actually have no practical instincts stuffed in with all that book learning. He might think he could do this on his own, and just be waiting for her to let her guard down, or until he’d gotten his bearings enough not to need her.

She whirled from the door, shaking her head sharply. It was too early to know anything, yet. No sense borrowing trouble. Refusing to let the thought of him in the next room intimidate her, she resolutely removed her armor, checking it over for damage as she put it on the stand and ran a cloth over it to get the ash off. That done, she made a sketchy sort of bath, since her bathtub was locked in with her guest, grumbling about it all the while, then sat on her bed and unpinned the braided crown of her dark hair. The heavy rope thumped onto the bed beside her, and she stared at the door as she combed it, thinking this through.

No, she couldn’t afford to let herself be frightened of him, but she would be cautious. He wasn’t a friend, and she wouldn’t let her guard down. She’d keep her armor on unless behind a locked door, her weapons sharp and at hand. Deciding to start that last part tonight, she placed a dagger on her bedside table, another under her pillow. Without her armor she felt light and exposed, so she rolled up under the covers and willed herself to sleep.

~☯~

Wearing her armor around the house was not comfortable. Verity was, therefore, very annoyed when Miraak didn’t emerge from his room the next day. She went about her usual routine; maintaining her armor and weapons, wiping the little dust that had accumulated on the tables and shelves, sweeping up the floor, forging and enchanting iron daggers, and resupplying her travel bags. By nightfall, she was worried, and finally went and knocked.

What sounded like a pillow slammed against the door with enough force to send a feather through the crack, and she returned to being annoyed. Yelling that dinner was ready—well, brought over from the inn, anyway—she turned and stomped back up the stairs.

Ash yam stew wasn’t her favorite, but it was better than horker anything, so she’d chosen that. Horker meat was just so…gelatinous. The way it jiggled made her stomach try to copy the movement. Washing the last of the ashy texture from her tongue with some mead, she glanced up at a sound and found Miraak staring at her.

“If you say anything about helmet hair, I’m throwing this bottle at you,” she grumbled, irritated at him. She’d rented a washroom at the inn to clean her hair, but hadn’t given it time to dry properly before braiding it in a crown and shoving her helmet over it, all because she didn’t feel comfortable around him unarmored yet didn’t want him to be in the house alone. And it turned out she needn’t have even bothered.

“How long was I asleep?” he asked, and she looked back at him, frowning.

“About a day. I was thinking about it, and I remembered that I didn’t really get tired in Apocrypha.” She shrugged, leaning over to uncork another mead for him. “I guess you just overextended yourself.”

“It will return to me soon enough,” he stated, and she watched him carefully. Was he defensive, or merely trying to reassure himself?

“Do you wear armor?” she asked, watching him simply look down at the food. “I have a lot of sets here we could get adjusted for you, or we could buy you a set of robes, I suppose.”

“I’ll keep these,” he said firmly.

“No,” she replied, just as firmly. “If you want to get them copied, we can do that, but if I have to smell Apocrypha wafting off you every day, I’m going to lock you in a bathhouse until it goes away.”

The table creaked, and Verity’s eyes darted down to where Miraak’s hands were crushing the edge of the table, small splinters raising around the craters of his fingertips. Her mouth went dry, and she took another swallow of mead, raising her gaze to his again. He must be seething.

“They’re falling to tatters, Miraak,” Verity stated, staring into the slight gleams within the darkness of the mask. “Parts of them might be salvageable, but you’ll need something sturdier and warmer for traveling.”

Fire crackled, the light gleaming off the edges of the metal. “Fine,” he growled, shoving back from the table. Taking his food, he stomped back downstairs.

“What was that about?” she wondered as she stared after him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. It's hard for me to write with everyone home. ‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )‧º·˚ I'm not giving up, I promise.
> 
> ~☯~

“You are a stubborn woman,” Miraak noted, his deep voice rumbling with something that might have been amusement.

Verity glanced over at where he leaned against the edge of the boat, watching her walk across the water in his former colleague’s boots. Amusement? Couldn’t be. He’d been nothing but huffy and intractable since he’d fallen on his stupidly well-shaped rear in his own temple. “I hate sailing,” she replied, wrinkling her nose. “I’d much rather walk.”

“I’m waiting for you to trip on a wave,” he revealed. “How are you keeping those on your feet?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, surprised.

“You are very small,” he said, “Ahzidal was not.”

“I am perfectly cabled of adjusting armor,” she replied, rankled. That was the fourth time he’d brought up her size. “And I’m quite average, for an Imperial.”

He grunted, and she realized he was laughing at her. Briefly fantasizing about walking over and yanking him over the side of the boat, she stumbled on a wave and had to catch her footing. She’d had to layer four pairs of socks and shove another in the toes before she felt at all sturdy in the boots, but the rough water was making the journey difficult. The seasickness might be worth it if she could vomit all over her new companion, but it’d ruin the new robes she’d just paid for.

Verity sighed, jogging to catch up. Miraak certainly caught the eye now. His new robes were just like his old ones, already catching attention with their odd cut and armored pieces, but he’d opted for a muted red, almost like old blood. His broad shoulders already stood out among the Dunmer in Raven Rock, but somehow the brighter, somewhat menacing color made his stature more noticeable. Or perhaps it was just how he kept pointing out how much shorter she was. He’d kept the mask, of course. He was worse than a shy Breton girl of marriageable age about showing skin.

Then again, with how uncomfortable the tailor looked, she wondered if there was a reason for that. The odd fluttering in her lower belly died a swift death at the thought.

Miraak sat up suddenly, attention caught by something. Following his gaze, she smiled slightly, then ran up to the side of the boat. “Windhelm!” she called, unable to restrain her enthusiasm for the end of the voyage.

He stared down at her wordlessly until her smile faltered. “I’m familiar with it,” he finally stated.

“Don’t be surprised by the Gray Quarter,” she warned, looping her hand in a bit of rigging to help her keep up. “A lot of Dunmer moved in after the Red Year, and they really flavor the place. It was a slum for a while, but now that the city is open to everyone again, there’s a lot of construction there. Much of the repairs are in their style.”

“I imagine Ysgramor would be frothing at the mouth if he knew,” the older Dragonborn mused. Catching her startled look, he added, “Snow Elf captives built that city. Now Dark Elf refugees are thriving in it.”

She thought about it. “There’s a certain balance in that.”

“I suppose,” he shrugged.

“Were you there?” Verity asked hesitantly, wondering exactly how old he was.

The mask turned toward her, and she caught a hint of incredulity in the action. “No,” he said at last. “That was…before my time.”

She shrugged, hiding the hint of a grin by hopping over a wave and marveling that they were actually having a civil conversation. Maybe sea air was good for the Dragon Priest. It was, she snickered inwardly, often recommended for old people. Realizing he might be insulted—remarks on her height aside—she explained, “Ysgramor, the Dragon War, all of that was prehistory for us. We have no idea how many years or centuries they might have encompassed. Time might as well have been a blob before the First Era.”

“Time is a blob anyway,” he corrected absently, watching the city approach.

“What does that mean?” she demanded, puffing a little as the boat caught a favorable wind and sped up.

Miraak regarded her wordlessly for another of those horrible, drawn out silences of his. “When you live long enough,” he finally said, “the way you perceive time changes. It both stretches and condenses. Minutes are endless and weeks gone without notice. There is only this moment that is separate from the others, and only because you are directly experiencing it.”

“Oh, Divines, you’re as bad as Paarthurnax,” she groaned. “Just say you have no sense of time passing and be done with it.”

The sound of wood splintering jerked her gaze back to him. “I am _nothing_ like Paarthurnax!” he snapped, making her jump. With that, he shoved away from the rail and stomped to the other side of the ship, leaving ten small splintered sections where his fingers had crushed into the railing.

~☯~

Verity stepped right from the water onto the dock, practically skipping along the stone as Miraak walked slowly down the gangplank, his eyes riveted to the massive walls of the city.

“Miss it?” she asked, taking her pack from one of the sailors unloading cargo.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” he declared.

“Well, things do tend to shrink in the cold,” she reminded him impishly, almost giddy to be back in Skyrim after so long. He gave her a sharp look, which she returned innocently.

Up the ancient, frozen steps to the east gate of the city, and into the Grey Quarter. A market had sprung up in the courtyard before the entrance inside, and she made right for a vender selling spiced and mulled wines, a mix of Nordic and Dunmeri flavors. Her eyes fluttered shut as the first sip exploded heat and spice on her tongue, then smiled contentedly. “Would you like one?” she belatedly asked her companion.

Miraak’s mask regarded her blankly, then moved subtly to indicate his gaze had dropped to the drink in her hand. “No.”

Verity huffed delicately. “Too bad. Might have been good for your old bones,” she told him, sailing off down the newly paved street and leaving him sputtering behind her. Nothing could ruin her enthusiasm to be back, not even her fellow Dragonborn.

Fingers still wrapped around and warmed by the cheap clay jug, she let her eyes wander over the rebuilt and sturdied tenements. No longer decaying wood and crumbling brick and mortar, new walls slathered with the same plaster or cement the Dunmer of Morrowind used kept in heat and bulwarked against the cold. Bright splashes of crimson or bursts of gold and blue awnings or flagged hangings decorated the top of the street, the copper-orange of pottery tiles peeking out around them. Some of the buildings sat elevated on squat pillars of stone, a few cattle, boars, or even the occasional netch corralled underneath. Had the city been in a warmer climate, she had no doubt some of the roofs would sport gardens, as well, but there might well be greenhouses put in if the tenants decided crowdfunding the glass was worth the fresh produce.

She made a mental note to find out how Dunmer felt about loans. Lending was a lucrative business in Cyrodiil, and if she dropped a few hints that she’d be willing to advance some, it would keep the predatory lending down before it got out of hand. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford to swallow the loss if they needed to default, and she certainly didn’t want to deal with another Mogrul here. Might as well head off that problem before it became one.

“This place is a labyrinth,” Miraak complained from behind her.

“At least the ground stays put,” Verity pointed out, a bit surprised when he snorted agreement. “We’re going to the inn,” she added. “You might have gotten sleep on that ship, but I certainly didn’t. Not to mention that nights on Solstheim weren’t exactly the most restful.” That last came out quite a bit more waspish than she’d intended.

The mask turned toward her slightly for a few long steps before he spoke. “And here I thought it was your moral umbrage that made you come after me. No, it was because I was keeping you up at night,” he groused, sounding more huffy than teasing.

Verity hid her face in her cup as her cheeks flooded with heat, both new and remembered. The first night she’d heard his voice chanting in her mind she’d simply awoken at the Stone and sat at the edge, sore from unaccustomed labor, yes, but more taken aback by the tingling over her skin. She’d found herself reaching for that voice at the edge of slumber sometimes, like a song she desperately wanted to hear again.

The man might be morally bankrupt, but his voice was sinful, and she was not immune, as much as she’d like to pretend otherwise.

“If you want to drive a woman to murder, Miraak, there are faster ways than depriving her of sleep,” she told him dryly.

“I’m aware,” he stated, the curt words pulling her thoughts in an entirely different direction.

“Well, there’s a story there,” Verity noted, gazing up at him with wide, interested eyes.

Miraak visibly stiffened. “Not one you’ll be hearing.”

If anything, her grin widened. “So there _is_ a story,” she stated.

He grumbled and walked faster, nearly running over the nosy gossip in his haste to get away from her.

“Excuse us, Viola,” Verity smiled apologetically as she followed, repressing a wince. Who knew what spin the woman would put on this? Probably something about her importing bull men to run innocent women over on the streets.

Though, given the choice, Verity would take a minotaur over Viola’s gossip any day.

“Stop,” she growled, finally catching up and unthinkingly grabbing his arm to pull him about. Her hand jerked back as if she’d been burned. His arm felt like hot stone, all heat and no give.

Miraak did not turn. He stiffened, halting, and turned his head slightly to glare down at her. Verity swallowed subtly and matched him glare for glare. “Do you want to get lost?” she asked him archly. “Because rushing down whichever random alleyway your feet reach is a great way to do that. Especially when you’re stomping too fast for me to keep up.”

“I was not walking fast,” he grumbled, his glare transferring forward and making a carter crossing their path gulp and hasten his steps.

“The inn,” she said pointedly, deliberately pressing lightly on the back of his shoulder guard to guide his turn, “is that way. We are getting rooms for the night and you can eat in yours to save the rest of the patrons your glowering. Now, can you please walk at a normal pace?”

After a moment of staring at her and blocking the road, he strode forward, outpacing her in five steps so she groaned in frustration and jogged to catch up. “I was not walking fast,” he repeated, and she rolled her eyes. “You’re just that short.”

Verity made a strangled, indignant noise at his back, then had to run after him. Honestly, the man was a menace.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone that's still here!
> 
> ~☯~

The woman was a menace.

Miraak glared at her from behind his mask, watching her haggle cheerfully with a shopkeeper, clearly coming out with the better bargain. He’d read about the Imperials’ knack for commerce, but this was his first chance to see it in action. He didn’t like it. It just made him wonder how she’d convinced Hermaeus Mora to let him go.

She was convincing, for certain. As they were leaving the inn that morning the innkeeper had given them a travel pack for their lunch, apparently because Verity had talked down a few drunks from a barfight the night before when she’d gone to the common room (Miraak had, of course, chosen to eat in his room). The very idea that she’d managed to talk two Nords, two _drunken_ Nords, out of pummeling each other with various pieces of inn furniture was nothing short of supernatural. And it irritated him out of all proportion.

Grin splitting her tanned face, she strode back to him, the sway of her hips attracting attention, even encased in bulky ebony. She didn’t appear to notice. Admiration was a Dragonborn’s due, but she neither acknowledged nor basked in it.

If anyone had dared to openly leer at him like that he would have had their eyes ripped from their skulls. He found himself unreasonably angry with her for not minding. She danced around conflict as if repulsed by it, when he knew she wasn’t. He’d seen her fight—been utterly distracted by it—but she had a maddening way of talking herself out of confrontation just as often. Miraak couldn’t say in truth that the younger Dragonborn backed down from conflicts, but she changed the stage from one of combat to one of words, deescalating the situation and often finding a way to bring both parties to agreement.

It was absurdity. She shouldn’t have to _convince_ anyone of anything. They should simply do as she commanded. Could she not feel the instinct to make them submit to her orders?

The hefty coin pouch she handed him broke him of his thoughts, and he stared down at it, confused. Was she expecting him to carry her money for her, like a servant?

“Unless you want a thief catching notice, you might want to put this away now,” she prompted impatiently.

“I don’t carry things,” he told her firmly.

“Well, I’m not carrying your things,” she scoffed, then caught the slight jerk of his head. “Oh, you thought…I told you, you get half. This is your share.”

He processed this, not entirely sure how to take it. “Very well,” he said, after making her wait long enough to start to fidget. He took the purse and stowed it in his robes.

Verity tucked an escaped lock of wavy black hair back behind her ear nervously, nodded, and moved on, clearly expecting him to follow. She always did that, and it always rankled. Gritting his teeth, he followed.

~☯~

“Do you ever take that off?”

Miraak looked at her, breaking his gaze from the mountains around them. He couldn’t stop drinking in the landscape, the air, the light. He drank in her the same way, her smooth skin and dark hair so welcome a change from the mottled purples and greens of the Seekers’ distorted features. Miraak had always focused his gaze on their facial tentacles, so indicative of their moods, when he spoke to them. With Verity, his gaze tended to wander from her dark, expressive eyes to the small scar through the plush flesh of her lower lip.

“No,” he said, turning away and walking onward, catching the scent of mountain flowers and just a hint of fresh grass.

“Even to sleep?” she asked incredulously, jogging to catch up.

“I don’t like sleeping,” he replied before he thought.

“I’ll bet. You probably go right back to Apocrypha,” her reply was just as thoughtless, and she winced and bit her lip. “Sorry, that was…”

“Correct,” he stated. “It was correct. It will pass in time. I’m unaccustomed to dreaming yet.” He drew in a deep breath and walked onward.

“You always do that,” she said softly, surprising him. “I thought for sure you’d deny having any weaknesses whatsoever, but you always admit to them, then declare you’ll overcome them as if you can do so by will alone.”

“I can,” he stated.

“And there’s the arrogance,” she sighed, exasperated.

“It’s not boasting if it’s true.”

“You can’t always fight your own mind, Miraak,” she cautioned, something in her tone hinting at sadness, at regret. “It just makes things worse.”

“Is that why you shove your instincts behind your tongue?” he demanded caustically.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Verity halted, balling up her fists and planting them on her hips. There she was.

His pulse quickened as he turned to her, a sharp retort on his lips, when a dragon’s roar ripped the air, shuddering the branches of the evergreens and sending snow flurrying and tumbling to the drifts beneath. They both looked up, eyes narrowing at the challenge inherent in that cry. The _dovah_ appeared between them and the sky, then vanished behind the obscuring branches on the other side of the road.

“There’s a clearing a bit further on,” she said, her voice laden with something he recognized, but could scarcely put just one name to. Excitement. Adrenaline. Dread.

Blood lust. Battle lust.

Snow sprayed around their feet when they skidded to a halt, turning as one to watch the dragon bank his flight and bring him back around. He calculated the best _thu’um_ to challenge him, seeing the signs of fire in the soot-darkened scales, the charcoal caked along talons, staining them.

Then Verity loosed a _thu’um_ that shattered his thoughts and ripped through his nerves. Blue, fiery light collided with the _dovah_ , which shrieked with the same pain he felt, and toppled.

She was on it before he’d gotten his bearings, darting in with surprising nimbleness for someone in heavy armor and going right for the wing membrane, preventing the dragon from taking off again. Jaws as large as she was opened to bellow in pain, snapping the air where she had just been.

Recovering himself, he bellowed in rage to have been so incapacitated, and charged the _dovah_ , his sword slicing scales and flesh from along the curved neck of the creature. Verity stumbled back, staring at him with eyes wide in shock, her color high, then shoved her helmet over her features so he could no longer read them. She vanished behind the other side of the dragon, and it screamed as they broke through armored scales together, realizing its error in challenging them.

Flame crackled along its hide, and Miraak braced himself for the feeling of its soul merging with his, an agony and ecstasy not found anywhere else.

Verity collided with his side with enough force to send him staggering.

**_“NOT THIS TIME,”_** she snarled, the dragon in her finally at the surface, where his always dwelled. Her declaration rumbled through is bones, shattering the pebbles at their feet.

“I dealt the final blow,” he argued, neither knowing if that were true, nor caring. Adrenaline surged like fire through his veins, and nothing would sooth it but his rightful prize. He might not have wings, but he shared this with the bastards that once enslaved him.

“Bullshit!” she snapped, shoving him again. He pushed back, using his greater height and weight to send her out of the path of the roaring blaze of color wafting off the dragon.

Verity tackled him again, and they rolled. When one started to get their feet, the other pulled them back down. Her armor bruised against his chest and he shoved her off, feeling the rush of light and air around them, waiting for one to give up claim. Miraak surged upwards, determined to stand the victor, when she grabbed the back of his mask and pulled. He twisted with the movement, momentary panic overtaking his goal, and found himself on his back, the smaller Dragonborn sitting atop his chest with his robes in her fists, the forehead of her helmet pressed against his mask so her eyes bore into his.

“You’ve stolen enough of these from me.” Her reminder was surprisingly even, given the venom underscoring every word. The soul collided with her, seeping in, and she gasped, twitching, her pupils dilating. For a long moment, they could only look at each other, panting, pulses thrumming so hard they could hear the other’s heartbeat.

“This one thinks the dragon slayers should find a better place than the side of the road for these activities,” a purring voice suggested, dripping with disapproval and awkwardness.

Verity shoved off him so fast Miraak was briefly stunned by the air rushing back in his lungs. Visibly composing herself, she turned to the Khajiit in monk’s robes watching them from the path, tail twitching every so often in discomfort. “Sorry, M’aiq. We just had…a little disagreement.”

The tail lashed. “Verity should perhaps go back to traveling with Lydia. That one seems less…disagreeable.”

“Unless asked to carry something,” Verity snorted, back to her usual self. She turned slightly, as if to look back at him, then thought better of it and strode toward the dragon, sorting through the remains for anything salvageable.

Miraak watched her with narrowed eyes for long minutes, grinding his teeth. At last, he rose and joined her in collecting their spoils.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I am apparently horrible at this updating thing. A lot of that has to do with COVID and people being around, but I really should work on that. Sorry.
> 
> ~☯~

They’d barely spoken for two days. Verity glanced over at him, unsure if he were still fuming or not, and then back to the road ahead. Divines, but it had been an awkward journey since the dragon fight. She wasn’t … exactly sure why she was feeling so off-balance about it. She’d won, hadn’t she? Only, she’d played dirty to do so, nearly ripping off his mask, and for some reason that moment right before the soul hit, sitting atop him with her dragon roaring gleefully in her mind, kept playing behind her eyes. Verity had long accepted that voice was another part of herself, not just something awoken when she’d killed her first dragon, but present all her life, but it seldom just – just  _ took over _ like that. Just like it did before the death blow to a dragon, but more, somehow, deeper, more personal. The desire to make Miraak capitulate to her willingly, acknowledge her strength, her inner dragon…

Which was stupid. He acknowledged her inner dragon just fine. After all, he’d tried to kill her over it. The bastard.

The flickering torches of the small town ahead were a relief. Her pace picked up, leaving Miraak behind as she hurried toward them, hoping for shelter and, she desperately prayed, privacy from the increasingly tense atmosphere between them. Alas, the mining settlement boasted a tavern, but no inn. They’d be able to pitch their things under a roof, but there would be no locked doors tonight.

Verity sighed, unrolling her bedroll on the folding cot the tavernkeeper had provided, in the cellar near enough the bread ovens for warmth, but out of the way of the morning baking. Miraak sat on his by the mead casks, turning his tankard around in his hands and watching the liquid slosh around. The firelight caught red and gold along his edges, making him look like the sinister illustration of a villain in a children’s tale. He eclipsed those petty, cowardly figures from her upbringing in every way, both better and worse. Better at being worse, she supposed, as well as bigger, more imposing, taking up a room merely by existing in it. Miraak wore his power like a flame cloak – all-encompassing and impossible to ignore.

He caught her looking and returned her gaze.

Standing abruptly, face hot, she stormed upstairs into the din of miners and guardsmen settling down to dinner and a pint. Ignoring their stares, she ordered her own food and found a place to eat in relative peace, wall at her back and a column on one side.

What was happening to her? She wasn’t normally this combative, but Miraak brought out all the lower instincts she’d worked to overcome since girlhood. Verity winced, flexing her hand in the remembered pain of smacked knuckles. It had taken a long time to learn how to conquer her own anger, to resist lashing out at her governesses. She was proud of her level head, her ability to make others find common ground. She and Miraak had a lot in common, much to find accord over, so why did he affect her this way? It wasn’t like she hadn’t dealt with egomaniacal assholes in the past, after all. The majority of them were even still breathing.

“Hello, Verity!”

Surprised, she looked up into the familiar face of the courier, grinning down at her. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Got something I’m supposed to deliver!” Digging through the satchel at his side, he produced a rolled letter, red wax seal boasting the Wolf of Solitude, and presented it to her with a flourish.

“Thanks,” she said, taking it and stowing it away carefully. Finishing her meal, she wove back through the patrons to the stairs. She wished mightily she could take her armor off – she’d been in it for three days already – but didn’t dare. Miraak might determine to absorb a dragon soul, after all. It was a high unlike anything else, a rush of power, pleasure, and pain, and if she had been ready to tear him apart with her bare hands after he’d taken the first one from her, she could imagine how he felt after having two days walking beside her to stew about it.

Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, she headed back down the stairs.

~☯~

The mead wasn’t bad. Miraak rolled his tankard a bit, watching it swirl and catch the dim light, idly rubbing his face with his other hand. Days since he’d been able to take the mask off, and the indentations atop his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose both itched and ached. His head felt positively light without it, and what he could feel of the faint air currents against his skin was a simple pleasure he never would have noticed before.

Filling his lungs with air not tinged with metal, he leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. Verity was up there somewhere, eating with the commoners the way he hadn’t since the priests had selected him for their order. Why she pretended to be one of them, he couldn’t fathom. True, there was a sense of camaraderie he missed, but other than the other priests he hadn’t really had an equal in a long time. She was Dragonborn, but also clearly nobly born, and her easy socialization with the lower classes was an illusion. They welcomed her with friendly greetings, but there was always a distance between them, and there always would be. She was too quick to take charge, too willing to step in and settle disputes with undeniable authority. Even if she hadn’t had dragon’s blood flowing in her veins, she was different than them.

Verity had to feel the way they subtly withdrew from her; she was too intelligent not to.

Miraak had been like that once, he vaguely remembered. Different and not finding any explanation for it, feeling as if it were some personal failing. His temper and confidence had irked his peers as a youth, explained briefly when he was selected to serve the temple. But that hadn’t helped for long. Even among the other acolytes he’d been different, his magic stronger, his ease learning the Voice unparalleled and unprecedented. Befriending even his closest underlings was impossible and taking other priests into his confidence inadvisable. The dragon he’d served couldn’t have cared less for him, simply one in a long line of priests that had served him, though he’d taken pride in Miraak’s power.

Not so much when Miraak had betrayed him and taken his soul, but that was neither here nor there.

Miraak was coming to the reluctant conclusion that this was actually why Verity had saved him. No one else was like her, and she’d been willing to save even a rival if he could fill that void inside her.

The image of her atop him, raging and fierce, flashed through his mind for the hundredth time that day, and he cursed, hurling the empty tankard against the wall across from him, denting it and cracking the corner of the cobble it bounced off. He leaned forward, rubbing his temples with both hands and forcing his thoughts away from  _ filling _ the younger Dragonborn with anything.

Light flooded the room as the trap door to the cellar was lifted, and Miraak hastily yanked his mask back on as she appeared, narrowly missing her scrutiny. Verity didn’t comment, pretending she hadn’t seen the quick movement, as diplomatic as ever. He wasn’t certain whether to be relieved or irritated that she had no apparent interest in what he looked like. He was becoming almost embarrassingly curious about what was under her eternal suit of ebony.

Verity sat on her cot, absently reaching up and rubbing under the braid that made a full crown atop her head, firelight painting it with red highlights to match the reflections in her atrocious armor. She nibbled the scar on her lip, reading through a scroll with a red wolf seal sticking precariously to the top edge. Miraak found himself wondering what had put it there.

“Change of plans,” she announced, as if she’d had any plans to begin with. “In the morning, we’re for Solitude.”

“Some urgent demand for your assistance?” he inquired scathingly. He’d already made his opinion on her being the jarl’s “errand girl” quite clear. It was as if she were trying to make up for centuries of dragons ruling Nords by serving them herself.

“No,” she replied calmly, her eyes narrowing at him just a bit, “I’m needed at Court.” At his wordless stare, she elaborated, “General Tullius is finally leaving. Queen Elisif is throwing him a farewell party. As her Thane and Legate in the Imperial Army, I should be there.”

“You served as a common soldier?” he asked, offended. What idiot would put a Dragonborn in the rank and file? They were for leading armies, for Shouting down the city gates, not slogging through the mud on endless marches!

“I’ve never been a common anything,” she scoffed, the quiet pride in her voice at the declaration catching his notice. “And what’s it to you?”

There was a long pause before he replied, thinking through what he wanted to say for once. She would dismiss most of his feelings, he was sure, but at the very least she must understand the waste in resources. After all, no good general gave a battlemage a pike and sent him up front, it wasn’t logical. “You are Dragonborn.”

“I am many things,” Verity corrected, stowing the letter away and unlacing her boots. She was spending another night in her armor? How could she stand it? He was almost convinced she had Dremora in her by this point. “Right now, what I am is tired. Good night, Miraak.”

With that, she turned over on her cot, resolutely ignoring him. He let his eyes linger on her a few moments, frustrated in multiple ways. At the very least, Miraak was now convinced he never wanted Verity’s soul. She was bothersome enough by his side. Bormahu knew he didn’t want her in his skull.


	6. Chapter 6

Solitude, and Verity could barely contain her excitement to be home. Miraak had gone silent looking at it, but she’d ignored him in favor of letting the sea wind tease out long strands of her hair, taking in the scents of baking and street vendor food. She’d left him leaning on the post outside Radiant Raiment, where Taarie assured her it would be no issue to update her formal dress before the party. For a substantial fee, of course.

That done, she emerged back into the bright, clear Solitude day to find her companion glowering over it like a red and gold storm cloud. Even with his mask, displeasure practically radiated off him.

“Bee climb in your mask, or something?” she demanded, crossing her arm.

He glanced down at her, taking a moment to assess her, as he always did. She was fairly certain she never wanted to know what he was thinking. “This is the current capitol of Skyrim,” he stated, but she nodded like he was an idiot anyway. She almost smiled to hear his teeth grind. “It looks nothing like a Nord city.”

“Of course not. Nords prefer to build in wood, so most of it had to be rebuilt at some point, and what didn’t need rebuilding was shored up and faced with matching stonework. It’s an Imperial trading hub, they wouldn’t leave it structurally unsound or vulnerable to invasion.”

Verity might have imagined the twin gleams in his mask getting slimmer as he narrowed his eyes. “It’s a Nord city.”

Twitching back, she blinked at him, matching affront simmering inside her. “Well, _I’m sorry_ if Nord things with Imperial trappings insults you, your high and mightiness. If it bothers you so much, perhaps we should leave you in Windhelm next time.” He made an angry sound and started to stomp toward the inn. “Oh, no need for that,” she called with icy sweetness. “I have a house here. What, do you really think I’d pass up a chance to live in the only city in the province that reminds me of home?”

Turning, she strode down the road, not really caring if he followed or not. He really was a menace.

~☯~

Her home was impressive. He wasn’t about to admit it to her, though. Miraak had trailed her through the streets, still taken aback at how little Nord influence was evident in the very capitol of Skyrim, to a neighborhood with massive manors lining the roads. There, Verity had surprised him by turning and using a servants’ entrance to enter one right off the street. He’d followed and found himself in a basement mudroom with a fully stocked forge. Verity hadn’t paused, continuing right through into an armory with more mannequins than some towns had guards, loudly proclaiming she was home.

He should have expected the dogs.

Three massive, slobbering canines wiggled and barked around her, unable to contain their happiness to see her, and Verity’s personality flipped. She knelt and cooed and rubbed their heads with equal enthusiasm, letting them lick her face and even knock her over at one point. They only settled when pulled out of the way by a small boy and a Nord shieldmaiden, both of whom expressed pleasure to see her again, and neither of which paid him the least mind.

An hour later, and he was still trying to wrap his head around it.

“What’s that on your face?” the boy asked, sitting at the table across from him with his chin propped on his folded arms, staring at him curiously. One of the dogs had its head on the table beside him, also staring, but its gaze was fixed on Miraak’s untouched plate of food. The other two had been avoiding him since he growled at them; this one was unperturbed.

“My mask,” he replied curtly.

“Maybe you should get a helmet,” the lad suggested, “That doesn’t protect the back of your head _at_ _all.”_

“Blaise,” Verity admonished, walking down the steps with a folded green bundle, “Leave Miraak alone.”

“How’s he supposed to have your back if someone sneaks up behind him and hits him in the head?” Blaise protested.

“I don’t need him to have my back,” Verity told him evenly.

“Good, because he’ll be unconscious,” Blaise stated, ignoring Miraak’s sputtering. Standing, he eyed the package in her arms. “That need to go to Taarie?”

“She insists she have it today,” Verity said ruefully, handing it to him. “Would you mind running it down there for me?”

“Sure thing!” he grinned, gave a cheeky solute, and rushed for the door. “Come on, Meeko!” he yelled, and the dog barked and followed. The silence that followed after the door closed was almost palpable by contrast.

Miraak looked after him a moment, then back to Verity. “He’s not yours,” he observed.

“No. I found him working in the stables outside town. They had him sleeping with the horses.” She winced, grabbing a mead and taking the seat Blaise had vacated. She slid a second mead to him, she always did, even though he never drank it where she could see. “His parents were Legionnaires, but the Legion didn’t provide for him after their deaths, so I did. I couldn’t adopt him—Mother would have had a cat had I given her name to a former stable boy—but I could give him a better life. I like to think of him as the little brother I never had.” She grinned crookedly after the boy.

“Does your mother often dictate your actions?” he inquired, wondering what kind of woman could push a Dragonborn, of all people, around.

Verity winced. “Mother’s very… traditional. She sent me up here to Skyrim originally for a marriage alliance. Imagine her dismay when I dared to run off and make a name for myself instead.” Grim satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. “She actually came up to yell at me about it when she learned. Shame a dragon didn’t eat her.”

Correctly deducing there was no love lost there, Miraak toyed with his bottle. “Yet you still allow her say,” he noted. “You hire a boy you wish to adopt rather than taking him into your family. You made him an underling and leave him with your servant.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she turned to face him, shoulders set and tense, and he turned to match her, enjoying the way her eyes flashed with anger. “Listen here, you arrogant shit. Blaise is not my ‘underling,’ he’s my ward, and Jordis— _none_ of my housecarls—are servants. They’re my family, my _real_ family, and if you disrespect them again…” she trailed off, fuming.

“What?” he asked, leaning in across the table challengingly, “You’ll what?”

Verity stood, towering over him for once and leaning forward on her hands, her face inches from his mask. “I’ll use Dragonrend on you,” she said, stilling him. “I saw what it did during the dragon fight, and it didn’t even catch you directly. Some part of you is more than mortal, and I will twist that part into a little ball if you mess with them.”

He was silent, heart pounding at the threat, staring up into her dark eyes and realizing she meant it. Good. Finally. “And what if I ‘mess’ with you?” he asked softly, enjoying having her ferocity at the surface, enjoying feeling another dragon near him, rather than the mortal she pretended to be so well sometimes he struggled to sense her.

Red bloomed in her cheeks as she reared back. Her glower didn’t hold the force it usually did. “Are you serious?” she demanded, sounding as if she thought he might be mad.

“I spent the last few ages trapped in a realm of books,” Miraak reminded her, “Goading you is _vastly_ more entertaining.”

The glare returned to normal, annoyance making her purse her lips. “Do you _want_ to get stabbed and thrown off the Solitude Arch?”

“You could try,” he invited.

Pure irritation ruled her expression now. “I should have left you in Apocrypha!” she spat, pivoting on her heel and stomping up the stairs.

Miraak watched with interest, then looked back down to her housecarl, who had caught some of that, and who proceeded to just stand in the doorway, holding a tray of snacks and gaping at him. “I’ll take some of that to my room,” he told her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone needs Miraak, he'll be sitting in Verity's guest room, pouting.


End file.
